


man with the midas touch

by patho (ghostsoldier)



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Age Difference, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kink Meme, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostsoldier/pseuds/patho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some buttons aren't necessarily meant to be pushed, but where's the fun in that?</p>
<p>Or: Ajay Ghale learns to be exact with his words</p>
            </blockquote>





	man with the midas touch

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the small-but-growing [Far Cry 4 kink meme](http://farcry4-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/436.html#comments)! 
> 
> Many thanks to both [rozurashii](http://rozurashii.tumblr.com/) and [pearwaldorf](http://pearwaldorf.tumblr.com/), who kindly looked this over for me despite never having played the game. Whatever mistakes remain are mine and mine alone.

So here’s the thing about the statue: it’s a _really easy_ button for Ajay to push.

They’ve both got them: weird, nitpicky issues they can needle each other about, because needling each other about the stupid shit means they don’t have to examine the big scary things looming around the periphery of their relationship. They don’t have to talk about the strange domesticity of it or why Ajay stayed instead of going back to the US, why Pagan stayed instead of going...wherever the fuck he’d planned to go; Ajay didn’t ask and he doesn’t want to know. They don’t have to talk about Mohan, or the Golden Path, or how Ajay -- despite killing god knows how many Royal Army soldiers -- still couldn’t bring himself to put a bullet in Amita or Sabal when the time finally came. They don’t have to talk about any of it.

Instead, Pagan snipes at Ajay about his clothes. His shoes. His hopelessly American and thoroughly unadventurous palate. His bleeding heart tendencies. His newfound terror of honey badgers. And Ajay pokes right back, because Pagan makes himself a pretty easy target, what with the megalomaniacal tendencies of his youth and the ridiculous shit he gets irritated about and his propensity to snort just about anything up his nose.

He maybe gives Pagan a little too much shit about the statue, but if Ajay’s entirely honest with himself, it’s because mocking Pagan’s solid gold statue is a lot easier than admitting he _likes_ the dynamic they’ve developed. He’s...not really sure what to do with that feeling just yet.

So they pick on each other, and that’s cool. And they never talk about the big stuff, and that’s cool too. And Pagan ruffles his hair and tends to stand really close and his grumping about Ajay’s clothes involves a lot of _touching_ , and -- that’s more than cool, really, that’s just straight-up _copacetic_. He supposes it falls under the same category as the big stuff they don’t talk about, because neither one of them mentions it. Ever.

And at least once a day, Ajay finds a way to bring up the statue.

“It’s probably better I blew it up, really,” he says. He takes another sip of his drink -- something bright and fizzy and no doubt incredibly alcoholic -- before settling back into the overstuffed cushions. He grins at the narrow-eyed glare Pagan shoots him, the expression clearly illuminated by the flickering lights of the Blu-ray projector. 

“I mean, can you imagine what future archeologists would think?” he continues. “All the architectural marvels of old Kyrat, temple ruins, saints carved in the cliffs, and then -- BOOM. Fugly-ass solid gold statue of some dude with an unfortunate haircut and a _suit_. Is that really the legacy you wanted to leave behind?”

“Thankfully,” Pagan says, “recent developments have left me far less concerned about my legacy than I was prior to your arrival.” There is the wicked flash of a smile, there and gone again before Ajay can do more than blink. “I would, however, watch what you say about the hair. You may be king, dear boy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a lesson.”

“Why, what are you gonna do?” Ajay says, drunk on the weird little thrill he gets every time Pagan calls him a king. “ _Spank_ me?”

It’s a joke. He -- he knows he meant it as a joke. He never would’ve said it otherwise. Putting actual words to the things he sometimes catches himself thinking about late at night is quite possibly the stupidest and most dangerous thing he could ever do. It’s a _joke_.

The second the words leave his mouth, his entire body flushes hot in a sudden throb of _wow yes please_. He can only pray Pagan doesn’t notice.

“You kinky little bastard!” Pagan’s laughing, his eyes closed and head tilted back against the cushions. Ajay’s mouth goes dry with want. “God only knows if anyone needs to be taught a thing or two about respecting their damn elders, it’s you,” and he _oh fuck no_ opens his eyes and rolls his head to the side to grin at Ajay.

His eyes widen. His smile slowly, damningly, fades away. He says, very softly, “oh.”

_Oh shit_.

“Oh shit,” Ajay blurts. He upsets the bowl of popcorn between them as he lurches to his feet, skin crawling with abject humiliation and the need to _run run run get out go_. “Oh shit, I am. so sorry. I made it weird. I’m just, um. I’m just gonna--”

“Ajay,” Pagan says, still speaking in that soft, strange voice, “stop.”

Ajay stops. Talking, anyway. His heart’s still going a mile a minute and he’s all but twitching with the need to flee the scene before he can make things worse, but in this room of priceless artifacts Pagan’s looking at him like he’s the only thing with any actual value, like he’s the only thing that’s _real_ , and it’s...calming, actually, in a way he probably shouldn’t think about too hard.

“There we are,” Pagan says. He shifts in his seat. Leans forward ever so slightly, his elbows on his knees, open and angled towards Ajay in every sense of the word. The corners of his lips are tilted up, but there’s no trace of a smile in his eyes. Those are _hungry_ , scarily intense. Ajay’s so focused on the way Pagan’s expression blazes right through him that he almost misses him saying, “Now...trousers down.”

“Hang on,” Ajay says. “What?”

To his utter horror, the burning intensity drains out of Pagan’s gaze and leaves behind something far more uncertain. 

“Unless I misconstrued,” Pagan says slowly, “in which case I am _deeply_ so--”

Shit shit shit _fuck_.

“Hey, you know who uses words like ‘misconstrued’?” Ajay says, all but tripping over the words in his haste to get them out. “Assholes who get their ostentatious gold statues blown up.”

Pagan blinks.

“You want me to talk more shit about your hair?” Ajay’s hands are shaking, but it’s just nerves, he thinks, not fear. Adrenaline racing up his spine, pooling hot and urgent in his belly. The way Pagan is _looking_ at him, predatory and searching and starving all at once. “Because I will. Talk shit about your hair, I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I really like your hair, a...lot, actually, but--”

“Trousers,” Pagan says, the word dropping heavy into the charged air between them. “ _Down_.”

It should be absolutely mortifying how quickly Ajay scrambles to get his belt undone.

Doubt doesn’t start creeping in until his jeans are mid-thigh and his fingers are hooked in the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Skin-to-skin contact would be ideal, right? That’s -- that’s what he wants. Pagan’s hands on his ass like a brand, no cloth to get in the way. He _wants_ that. Badly.

But...going full-frontal without any leadup whatsoever, just, “Hey, Pagan, check out my dick! Now wanna slap my ass for a bit?” Like, they haven’t even kissed. Does Pagan want to kiss him? Given that Pagan seems totally on board with the spanking thing Ajay sure as shit hopes he wants to, but Pagan’s kind of weird and mercurial even at the best of times and he definitely doesn’t want to assume that--

He jumps, startled, when Pagan brushes the backs of his knuckles over his hip. He has no idea how long he’s been standing there like a deer in the headlights with his underwear still on, but from the excruciatingly gentle way Pagan’s looking at him, he suspects the answer is, _a while_.

Pagan brushes his knuckles over Ajay’s hip again and then flattens his hand. Palm warm against Ajay’s flank, solid and reassuring and grounding. He tugs Ajay forward.

“Come here, boy,” he murmurs. “I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”

Ajay’s mind goes giddily blank. _Oh. Oh wow_.

He’s already getting hard.

It’s easiest just to let Pagan manhandle him into position. His touch is brisk and sure, calmingly businesslike save for the occasional white-hot slide of his fingers against bare skin, a deliberate whisper over the small of Ajay’s back, his waist, the backs of his thighs. By the time he’s spread over Pagan’s lap, Ajay’s barely thinking at all. Dutifully raises his ass when Pagan says, “hips up,” shudders all over when Pagan slowly, carefully slides his underwear down.

“Now,” Pagan says, in far more conversational tones. “What was it you were saying about my statue again?”

_Statue? What statue?_

“Uhhh.” Ajay says articulately. Pagan keeps _touching_ him, running his hands over Ajay’s skin, fingers digging in for a brief, delirious moment before he moves on. It’s making it incredibly hard for Ajay to focus. He keeps tensing, waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. “It was...ostentatious. Vulgar. Gaudy.” Pagan’s touch skates along the crease where his ass meets the back of his thigh and his thoughts fly apart entirely. “F- _flamboyant_.”

“Synonyms!” Pagan snorts. “Really, Ajay, you should know better. Synonyms are nothing but lists of words for people too lazy to be precise in the first place. Where on earth is the devilishly clever young man who blew the damn thing sky high, hm?”

He bends down, his lips against the shell of Ajay’s ear, breath hot. For all his earlier playfulness, he sounds dead serious now. 

“This stops the moment you say it does,” he says. “Understand?” His forehead resting, just for a moment, against the back of Ajay’s head. The smell of his cologne, his skin. The unmistakable hardness pressing into Ajay’s stomach. This could end right here, right now, and Ajay would still be happy.

Then he thinks, _you know what, fuck it_ , and deliberately grinds against Pagan’s thigh. The resulting friction and Pagan’s sharp intake of breath make it absolutely worth it.

“Yeah, I get it,” Ajay says. His cheeks are burning hot, and he thanks every god he can think of and then a few extra that Pagan can’t see his face. At least his voice is only marginally unsteady. “So should I start counting these out in advance, or are you actually going to--”

Even though he’d been all but daring Pagan to do it, the first slap still takes him by surprise. A sharp _crack_ , obscenely loud to Ajay’s ears, the initial bright sting quickly followed by a bloom of warmth. Ajay chokes, too startled to cry out. 

He’s so hard it _hurts_.

“I believe you said something about counting?” Pagan says. Trails his fingers over smarting flesh and Ajay does whimper this time, his hips jerking as his confused body tries to figure out which direction it wants to move. “If you don’t, I’ll have to, but I’m afraid I simply don’t have the head for numbers these days. All the drugs, you see. Makes me forgetful.”

Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be. “One,” Ajay grits out.

“Good boy,” Pagan says, and hits him again.

By the time they get to six, Ajay’s a wreck. He’s got his face buried in the crook of his elbows in an effort to muffle the noises Pagan keeps wrenching out of him, but it’s not doing much. For one thing, he’s supposed to be keeping count; every time Pagan can’t hear him he simply gives Ajay a light little swat that nevertheless sends electricity shooting all the way into the soles of his feet, and it’s impossible to keep quiet, period. Clenching his teeth against the groans does absolutely nothing, and trying to breathe through his mouth merely resulted in a shivery, desperate whine that’s going to haunt him for the next ten years of his life.

At _least_.

Pagan’s touch trails down his spine, dips for a heart-stopping moment into the cleft of his ass before wandering off again. Ajay twitches; the skin beneath Pagan’s fingers feels raw and bright and hot, feels like it’s on _fire_ , and it’s probably a really good thing his erection is sort of trapped between the bunched cloth of his half-removed underwear and Pagan’s leg because otherwise this would’ve been over embarrassingly fast. As it is, he’s beginning to have serious doubts that he’ll make it to number ten -- there may not be a whole lot of friction going on, but the friction he is getting is appallingly, exquisitely good.

“Dear me,” Pagan says mildly. “You’ve gone terribly quiet. Have we lost count, perhaps?”

_We_. Good god. Ajay groans into his arms. “ _Fuck_.”

“It appears the American school system has failed you quite horribly, my boy.” Fond exasperation and amusement color Pagan’s voice. “I assure you, ‘fuck’ most definitely is not a number.”

His meandering touch hits a particularly sensitive spot and Ajay gasps, his nerves all sparking brilliant white. It’s the easiest thing in the world to dig his knees and toes into the cushions and rock against Pagan’s thigh.

“Six,” he whimpers. “We’re at _six_ , can you please just--” The words trail off in a broken cry as Pagan’s next blow hits the exact spot that made him react in the first place. “Oh _fuck_ , fuck, fuck--”

“And I reiterate,” Pagan says. “ _Not_ a number.”

Even through his haze of blind stupid lust Ajay can hear his voice shaking, which doesn’t do anything to help the situation. Pretty much the opposite, actually. Pagan’s been hard from the moment he got Ajay draped over his lap, but since then he’s been focused on Ajay and Ajay alone. 

But now that Ajay knows what he’s listening for, there’s a definite hitch to Pagan’s breathing. He can feel the faintest of tremors in Pagan’s fingers, the minute and ever-so-slight roll of his hips, as though Pagan’s just barely holding himself back from flipping Ajay over and--

He’s beginning to sound faintly desperate now. “Counting, Ajay. Do I need to start over?”

Oh dear god and Banashur and Kyra and...and _whoever_ , there is no fucking way Ajay can handle it if they start over. He’s barely keeping track as it is.

“Seven,” Ajay says hoarsely, “that was number seven,” and shivers when Pagan presses the heel of his palm to smarting flesh before sliding it down to grip the back of his thigh. This has gone way beyond joking and they both know it; at least one little voice in the back of Ajay’s mind is fretting over how he’s going to look the guy in the eye again after this. Whatever “this” is. Is this even about _him_ , really? Pagan once went off on a rambling radio tangent about bonding and ropes and Ajay just figured it was the coke talking, but maybe--

Blow eight scatters the thought like snow, and number nine leaves him all but hiccuping for breath, his eyes clenched shut, his fingers snarled in his own hair. His entire body jerks at the faintest brush of Pagan’s fingers on oversensitized skin, a fiery knot of arousal burning low in his belly. He’s basically humping Pagan’s leg at this point and it’s...it’s _awful_ , it’s awful and humiliating and he’s totally getting precome on Pagan’s fancy suit, and it’s maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Riding that razor thin edge of _almost enough but not quite_ , the same feeling he got when he went running off a cliff for the first time. That heady, heart-pounding, bloodrush of a moment before he snapped open the wingsuit and flew.

“One more,” Pagan says unsteadily. “One more, and then perhaps--”

Ajay gulps for air and pushes back into Pagan’s hand. Ears burning, cheeks burning, ass burning, every inch of his skin a fire that’s raging completely out of control. “Do it,” he rasps, the hint of a whine hooking at the edges of his voice when Pagan hesitates. “Please, Pagan.”

“Wretched boy,” Pagan mutters, “you’re going to destroy me.” And then, more loudly, “Ten.”

His hand descends.

The strike is harder than the last few, although Ajay has no idea if that was on purpose or not. Pagan’s _aim_ is certainly on point. A cry bursts out before Ajay can drag it back, his whole body curving in a tight, shaking comma over Pagan’s lap, and he can’t...oh _shit_ , he can’t fucking do this anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. Shoves a hand beneath himself and wraps it around his dick, too far gone to care about the mess he’s going to make. “I’m sorry, I just--”

Pagan inhales sharply and his grip goes tight on Ajay’s ass, and Ajay’s coming before he manages to get in more than a few quick, clumsy strokes, spilling over his fingers and onto Pagan’s suit, his own underwear, the cushions beneath them. Everything in his brain goes a clean, blissful white.

_Well_ , he thinks muzzily. _That sure is a thing that just happened_.

“Fuck,” he says aloud. “Sorry I came on your suit,” because why indulge in the gooey-sweet afterglow when you can, y’know, totally ruin the moment? He yelps when Pagan growls and bodily flips him onto his back. “Whoa, hey!”

Pagan’s eyes are blazing, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. “ _Fuck_. the suit,” he says, and before Ajay can say a word he’s crushed their mouths together in a desperate, hungry kiss.

Ajay groans and clutches at Pagan’s shoulders. It’s hard to focus on anything beyond Pagan’s tongue getting pretty well acquainted with the inside of his mouth, but he dimly registers Pagan shifting their positions, moving so that’s he’s straddling one of Ajay’s thighs. The clink of a belt buckle and rustling fabric, the unmistakable whisper of a zipper being drawn down.

_Oh my god_ , Ajay thinks deliriously. _Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god_.

Pagan’s panting when he finally breaks the kiss. “Wretched boy,” he rasps. Presses his forehead to Ajay’s, their noses touching, one hand cupping the back of Ajay’s neck and the other… _well_. “You wretched, beautiful boy, you have no idea...what you do to me.”

Given where his right hand is and what it’s doing, Ajay can definitely hazard a guess. He gets a good handful of Pagan’s hair and drags him back in for another kiss, messier than the first and with a lot more teeth, and keeps on kissing him until Pagan’s breathing goes harsh and ragged and he presses his face into the side of Ajay’s neck. 

A moment later, he grunts. Sudden wetness on the bare skin of Ajay’s hip, startling and hot, and then Pagan sags, still panting, shifting to the side just enough that he’s not crushing Ajay beneath him. If the room didn’t smell like sex before, it definitely does now.

Ajay wonders, a little panicky, what the social mores are for a situation like this. Is he _allowed_ to say, “So you totally just came on me and it was really fucking hot, can we maybe do that again sometime? Also, the bit with the spanking was pretty great too. I had no idea I was so into that.” It’s not that he’s particularly inexperienced or anything; it’s just that none of his previous sexual encounters have remotely prepared him for Pagan fucking Min. 

Pagan groans against Ajay’s shoulder. Gropes around for a moment until he finds Ajay’s face, then pats his cheek with vague affection.

“I’ll grant that it wasn’t silk sheets or candles or copious amounts of _wine_ ,” he says, his voice muffled, “but I think that still went rather well, don’t you?”

Ajay bursts out laughing. He can’t help it. There’s come drying on his hip and he desperately needs a shower, and with the endorphins wearing off his ass is _really_ starting to sting, but he’s so stupidly happy and relieved that laughter seems like the only appropriate response. It’s laughter or blurting out something really stupid about his feelings, and he’s not sure they’re ready for that just yet.

Or, you know, ever. 

It’s complicated.

Pagan lifts his head, frowning. The expression would be a lot more intimidating if he wasn’t still flushed and sweaty and Ajay hadn’t made a total wreck of his hair, and for whatever reason that just sets Ajay off again. Pagan sighs.

“I’m glad I amuse you,” he says. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, or should I just attempt to read your mind and hope this is a positive reaction?”

“No, it’s good, it’s good,” Ajay says, still snickering. He rolls his head to the side, laughter fading into a grin when he sees that Pagan’s attempt to look put out isn’t succeeding anymore. “We’re good.”

“Thank fucking goodness for that,” Pagan says. “I hate to think of what I’d do if we weren’t, seeing as self-exile didn’t exactly go according to plan the first time around.”

“Heh.” Ajay stretches until his joints give a nice, satisfying _pop_ , smiles doofily at the ceiling. “That’s just because you couldn’t stand to be away from me.”

He...should really stop joking about shit like that. His heart just about stops when Pagan kisses his temple and murmurs, “Precisely.” 

“...um?”

Pagan just pats his cheek again. Rolls away and staggers to his feet, tucks himself back into some semblance of order. “Stop fretting, Ajay,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Really, you must learn not to wear your heart all over your face. They’re going to eat you alive out there if you don’t.” 

He still looks completely debauched, but it’s impressive how stylish he is about it. Ajay takes the proffered hand without any hesitation and lets Pagan haul him to his feet.

“And what about in here?” he says. Pagan’s fussing over his clothes despite them being an obvious lost cause, and Ajay’s more or less letting him do it anyway. He’s not too proud to admit it’s simply because he likes having Pagan’s hands on him.

Pagan pauses at the question, his head cocked to the side. One eyebrow arches in faint inquiry.

“You said ‘out there’,” Ajay says. “So what about in here?”

Pagan smoothes down Ajay’s shirt with slow, deliberate movements, his touch lingering just a moment too long to be anything but purposeful. Beneath the fondness in his eyes is that same predatory, burning-hot intensity that landed Ajay in this mess in the first place.

“I think we both know the answer to that question,” Pagan says quietly. A crooked smile curving his lips, his hands still on Ajay’s waist. “Don’t you?”

This time, Ajay’s the one to kiss him first.

***

He brings up the statue a lot more often after that.


End file.
